The Wife Between Us(41)

Richard had called as my taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant. “I’m running a few minutes late.”

“Okay. I guess you’re worth waiting for.”

I heard his deep chuckle, then I paid the driver and exited the cab. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, absorbing the energy. I always looked forward to meeting Richard in the city.

I made my way to the bar, where there was one open stool. I ordered a mineral water and eavesdropped on the conversations around me.

“He’s going to call,” the young woman to my right reassured her friend.

“What if he doesn’t?” her friend asked.

“Well, you know what they say: The best way to get over one guy is to get under another.”

The women burst into laughter.

I hadn’t seen my girlfriends much lately; it had made me miss them. They still worked full-time, and on the weekends, when they went out and commiserated about the men they were seeing, I was always with Richard.

After a few minutes, the bartender set a glass of white wine down in front of me. “Compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar.”

I looked over and saw a man lift his cocktail in my direction. I remember raising the wineglass with my left hand, hoping he’d see my wedding ring, and taking a tiny sip before pushing it away.

“Not a fan of Pinot Grigio?” a voice asked a few moments later. The guy was short but muscular, with curly hair. The opposite of Richard.

“No, it’s good . . . thanks. I’m just waiting for my husband.” I took another sip to remove any potential sting from my rebuff.

“If you were my wife, I wouldn’t keep you waiting in a bar. You never know who might hit on you.”

I laughed, still holding on to the glass of wine.

I glanced at the door and locked eyes with Richard. I saw him take it all in—the man, the wine, my high-pitched, nervous giggle—then he came toward me.

“Honey!” I cried, standing up.

“I thought you’d be at the table. I hope they’re still holding it for us.”

The curly-haired man melted away as Richard signaled the hostess.

“Do you want to take your glass of wine with you?” she asked.

I shook my head mutely.

“I wasn’t really drinking it,” I whispered to Richard as we walked to the table.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t respond.

I’m so lost in the memory that I don’t even realize I’ve stepped into traffic until someone grabs my arm and yanks me back. A second later a delivery truck speeds past, blaring its horn.

I wait on the corner for another moment, until the light turns green. I imagine Richard ordering the squid ink pasta for his new love, telling her she has to try it. I see him half rise when she excuses herself to go to the restroom. I wonder if Maureen will lean toward Richard with an approving nod that says, She’s better than your last one.

On the night when the stranger bought me a glass of wine and I’d taken a few sips to avoid being rude, our meal had been ruined. The restaurant was so charming, with its exposed brick wall and intimate rooms, but Richard barely talked to me. I tried to make conversation, to comment on the food, to ask him about his day, but after a while, I stopped.

When he finally spoke, after I’d pushed away my plate of half-eaten pasta, his words felt like a hard pinch.

“That guy in college, the one who got you pregnant. Are you still in touch with him?”

“What?” I gasped. “Richard, no . . . I haven’t talked to him in years.”

“What else haven’t you told me?”

“I don’t—nothing!” I stuttered.

His tone was incongruous with our elegant surroundings and the smiling server approaching with the dessert menu. “Who was that guy you were flirting with at the bar?”

My cheeks heated up at the fresh accusation. I realized his words had been taken in by the couple at the next table, and they were now looking at us.

“I don’t know who he was. He bought me a drink. That was it.”

“And you drank it.” Richard’s lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Even though it might hurt our baby.”

“There is no baby! Richard, why are you so angry with me?”

“Anything else you want to reveal while we’re learning more about each other, sweetheart?”

I blinked against the sharp sting of tears, then I abruptly pushed back my chair, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. I grabbed my coat and fled into the still-falling snow.

I stood outside, tears streaming down my cheeks, wondering where I could go.

Then he appeared. “I’m sorry, honey.” I knew he truly meant it. “I had a horrible day. I should never have taken it out on you.”

He reached out his arms, and after a moment, I leaned into them.

He stroked my hair, and my sobs dissolved into a loud hiccup. He laughed quietly then. “My love.” All the venom had disappeared from his tone, replaced by a velvety tenderness.

“I’m sorry, too.” My voice was muffled because my head was pressed against his chest.

After that night, we never went back to Sfoglia.

I’m almost there now. I’ve crossed the park and have just three more blocks to travel. My chest feels tight. I’m gasping. I yearn to sit down, just for a minute, but I can’t miss my chance to see her.